The Forgotten Brother
by filimeala
Summary: He was the son of a Prince. Grandson of a King. He was the brother of an heir. Every dwarf wanted to be him, and every dwarf envied him. He had everything any good respecting dwarf wanted. He was the pride of his mother, the confidant of his elder brother, and the trusted son of his father. But he was so unhappy. The is the story of Frerin, son of Thrain. (Slightly AU)
1. Chapter 1

**This story is AU, there are certain events that will not happen and others that will occur at different times to fit the overall idea of the story. So there are things that in the real Hobbit book don't happen when I'm writing that they happen. This is purely an idea I had, and my first legit AU.**

**Tolkien owns everything.**

* * *

**Chapter One**

He was the son of a Prince. Grandson of a King. He was the brother of an heir. Every dwarf wanted to be him, and every dwarf envied him. There were those that wanted him dead because of this. He had everything any good respecting dwarf wanted. He was the pride of his mother, the confidant of his elder brother, and the trusted son of his father.

But he was so unhappy. It was easy to forget that there was another son beside the power of his elder brother.

He was unhappy. Unhappy that this was his lot.

The is the story of Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and how he found his happiness.

* * *

The steady tapping against stone didn't normally drive Frerin insane, but today it did. His temper was extremely short as his brother drummed his fingers against the table. The polished green stone underneath Thorin's fingers reflecting his tense reflection. Frerin didn't smile, like he usually would. He too sat stiffly in his chair, waiting in the almost silent study while in another room their father and grandfather met with the council.

Erebor itself was in an uproar, outside the royal apartments.

Moria had been overrun. The news was a blow to the proud dwarves, priding themselves in their great kingdoms and wealth. Everyone knew that for Moria to fall, something terrible must have happened. Only that morning had the news arrived. The ravens said that the survivors were coming, a good fortnight from Erebor.

Now the debate was held whether or not to retake the dwarven kingdom. Whether or not it was worth the risk of sending an army against the orcs that now were running rampant in their sacred halls. Whether or not they wanted to face the wrath of a fire demon, known to elves as a Balrog.

Thorin rose to his feet impatiently, taking to pacing the length of the room while staring off into space. Frerin watched him do this before turning his gaze to the fire. It was winter, the season being one of the worst in many long years. He could only imagine how miserable the survivors traveling towards them felt. The dwarflings would not take well to the weather, and he worried for their safety. Dwarflings were so hard to come by, cherished along with their women.

"I cannot believe that they are not sending our army to reclaim our halls before the enemy becomes too far entrenched in city!" Thorin finally growled. He had always been the more passionate one, while he sat calmly, watching his brother fume.

"You know what lies in the halls now," Frerin murmured impatiently. "Would you risk the lives of our soldiers against a demon of fire that so few are able to kill?"

Thorin shot him an annoyed look, but remained silent, a sign that Frerin had made a point. Frerin's eyes landed on the door, waiting for their father and grandfather to sweep in and declare the verdict. Still, they were left in silence, left to the torture of their own thoughts. Frerin, despite not wanting to work himself up over the whole thing, found his mind drifting to the survivor's again. He could not help but worry about their welfare. They were now homeless, all their possessions lost, and probably many had died.

"When the dwarves of Khazad-dum reach Erebor, they will need places to stay," he mumbled. But Thorin heard him and nodded as well.

"They can always be housed in the unfinished halls near the supply rooms," Thorin said. "I will mention it to father."

Frerin hummed under his breath. "Do you think the Lord of Moria still yet lives?"

Thorin stopped pacing and stared at him, brows pulling together in deep thought. Slowly he sank into his previously vacated chair with a sigh. "If I know Lord Nargeam, he would not willingly leave his halls if it was attacked."

Frerin nodded. Silence settled over them again. Thorin began to drum his fingers in the table and Frerin twitched in annoyance.

By the time their father and grandfather had returned, both brothers had bloody noses and black eyes. Frerin was the more level headed one, but it never stopped him from punching his brother.

* * *

For seven days they waited. No army was sent, and Thorin was furious. Along with several members of the council. Yet it was a good thing when the bitterest of storms came to the mountain. There were no empty fireplaces, all blazing brightly as the storm raged outside. Dwarves were hardy, yes, but not untouchable from the cold.

Already several reports had come from Dale of deaths due to the cold weather.

Frerin leaned against the fireplace in his mothers sitting room. The heat from the fire bathing him in blessed warmth, his hands frozen from his time guarding the wall. A duty every dwarf that was part of the army had to fulfill.

"Mahal, boy, step away from those flames before you light your beard aflame!" his mother admonished. Lalin, his mother, gave him a stern look as she lifted her eyes from the report in her hands. Her embroidery laying forgotten at her side. She was a beautiful dwarrowdam. Her dark ebony hair gleamed in the light of the fire, braided elegantly with deep blue sapphires. Lalin groomed her beard so that it was braided with many twists, adding to her looks in a way that was admired and envied.

On the floor beside Lalin was his younger sister, Dis, lazily playing with a small cat he had bought for her from Dale. Dis adored the little animal.

Frerin stepped away from the warmth of the fireplace, sinking into the chair beside it. The heat was not nearly as great and he instantly missed it. Perhaps he would go down to the forges that afternoon and work, while at the same time remaining in a heat filled room.

"Has Thorin finished with his meetings for the day?" she asked, not looking up from the report.

"No. Grandfather is insisting that he sit through all of them," Frerin replied. He did not envy his brother today. Meetings were tedious. Should he ever be king, which was not a chance, he would get down to the point of matters, and get them over with as soon as possible. Dwarven etiquette be damned. At least he never fell asleep in the ones he attended.

Unlike Thorin.

Lalin tutted. "He's going to regret that," she said, speaking of Thror. "Thorin will surely go and let off steam in some destructive manner later."

"Aye, that he will."

Frerin smiled when her eyes landed predictably on him. "Don't you go egging him on. I won't have my sons brawling in the taverns again."

"Why, amad, you speak as though you do not trust us!" he replied in a mocked hurt voice. Lalin sniffed, raising her chin.

"I don't."

"Amad?" Dis said looking up. "Can I go with them?"

"Of course not!" she murmured adamantly. "I'll not have my daughter running off with her brothers to pick fights in taverns. Mahal, it's unheard of. You are a Princess."

Dis's face went from hopeful to scowling before Lalin was even finished speaking. She pouted. Frerin smirked. Though she was their little sister, she caused nearly as much trouble as he and Thorin had when they were but young dwarflings.

Banging on the door interrupted his thoughts and he called for whomever it was to enter. A breathless dwarf entered, bowing to Lalin and Dis respectively before bowing to him.

"Yes?" he asked, having risen from his chair.

"A raven made it through the storm with an urgent message," the messenger said quickly. "The survivors have been snowed in for some days now and they have all but run out of food, they will die, if no aid comes for them. Your grandfather calls for your presence."

Frerin flew from the room, brows drawn together. This was most ill news, indeed. He had worried of this. The storm was one of the longest and cruelest of the winter. By the time he entered his grandfathers study he knew what he was going to do before it was even asked of him.

"Frerin, good," his father said as he burst through the doors. Thorin was standing at the end of Thror's desk while their grandfather sat behind it, a map spread over the surface. Frerin approached them after nodding in acknowledgment to his father and brother.

"I received your message," he breathed as he stood before Thror. "Are we to send a party to their aid?"

Thror looked up, hand stroking his chin. "Only if there are those willing to brave the storm. I will not send out men needlessly-"

"Needlessly!" Frerin cut in, anger taking hold. "They are our kin-"

"Do not interrupt me, boy," Thror growled. "I will not send an army to their aid. But a small group, with supplies, a few warriors. There are children and women with them, I am not so cruel as to leave them to freeze and starve in the wilds." He sternly gazed as his youngest grandson.

Frerin looked down at the desk, slightly abashed. He nodded before looking back at his grandfather.

"I will send Gimlor, and three others. Have supplies- food, blankets, and medicine- gathered. The party will leave as soon as everything is ready."

"With your respect, grandfather," Frerin said, feeling bold despite the hardness in Thror's eyes. "I would also wish to be a part of the group sent."

Thorin made an unhappy sound. "Frerin, that is madness-"

Thrain put a hand on Thorin's arm and his brother stilled with a deep frown of disapproval on his face. Frerin was glad that his father had done that. At the same time he was slightly disappointed. They had no reason for him not to go. He was not an heir. He was just a second son, a welcome but unnecessary addition to their family. Frerin knew without being told that he would be allowed to go.

Thror nodded slowly. "Very well."

* * *

Thorin grabbed the front of Frerin's tunic the moment they were beyond the doors of their grandfathers study and slammed him into the wall. His blue eyes were blazing angrily.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

Frerin shoved Thorin back, the momentum and Thorin's strong grip on him sending them rolling to the floor. They struggled for several moments before Frerin- holding Thorin's head against the ground- spoke.

"I will not sit idly by, do not ask me why, but I feel as though I must do this," he said.

Thorin threw an elbow, catching Frerin in the ribs and they rolled again, Thorin rising and pressing his booted foot on Frerin's chest. Thorin would always be the more skilled fighter.

"Why?" he demanded.

Frerin lay panting for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "It's as though I am drawn to them. I can explain it no other way, Thorin. I ask you, as my brother, to trust me in this."

"And if you get yourself hurt- or killed?"

"I will return. You have my word, brother."

Thorin's face went slack and he held out a hand for Frerin. Taking it, he rose, pulling Thorin into an embrace tightly. Before letting go he spoke.

"I will come back, Thorin. I promise."

* * *

Wind bit at every area of exposed flesh. The small party of dwarrow made their way through blowing snow and howling winds as they left the safety of the mountain. The pony's kept their heads low as they trudged through the snow, now at their shoulders. In some places the snow was so thick, and frozen that they could walk on the top of it.

Until one of them fell through and had to be dug out, of course.

The group, consisting of ten dwarrows, Frerin included, did not go towards Dale. Instead they went around the city, and deeming the lake to be frozen over good enough, used it as a shortcut towards the last known location of the survivors. Somewhere near the southern borders of Mirkwood.

It took a day to reach Laketown. By then they were all more than ready to receive the warm beds, and hot food from the people there. In the morning they set out again, pulling their fur lined coats tightly about themselves, and drawing the hoods of their cloaks well over their faces. At some point on the second day, the storm grew so bad that Frerin could not see his companions before him, and in a panic had called out to them.

They all agreed to stop for the day, huddling as close together as they could with their two pony's. Frerin couldn't think of a time where he had been more miserable. He could no longer tell what part of him was warm, and which was frozen solid. He could not imagine the state of the survivors, who had spent nearly two weeks out in this weather.

For the next three days they trudged on, nearly losing a pony to the cold, finding that they were several miles off course and so on. By the fourth day, worry turned to dread when they still had not found the party of survivors. They hoped and prayed they had not perished in the storm.

Frerin stumbled through the snow, growing frustrated with each step. They were all cold, Gimlor was sure to lose part of his nose, for it had turned a startling shade of purple, and their own rations were running low. They were honor bound not to touch the food set aside for the survivors. Raising his head he gazed at the wall of trees that made the border of Mirkwood to his right.

They had to be around, somewhere. He prayed to Mahal that they found them before it was too late.

* * *

Early the next morning the storm broke and the skies turned clear before the sun had risen. The wind still bit at their skin, but they could see. As they pressed on, the snow glittering like thousands of shining diamonds a dark shape coming from the trees drew their attention.

"Gimlor! Look!"

The shape began stumbling through the snow, waving its arms in the air frantically. The search party hurried towards the person, Frerin drawing to the front. He broke into a run as the figure collapsed in the snow, landing face first, where they lay unmoving. He stumbled, landing on his knees at their side, instantly knowing that it was a dwarf. He was cautious though, slowly turning the dwarf before taking in a sharp intake of air.

The cold air burned his lungs, and his eyes widened. The dwarf, was a dwarrowdam. Her skin, pale as the snow, lips a startling blue while her dark hair stood out starkly in contrast to the paleness of her. He noticed the burns on her skin, running over her face. Her beard was covered in snow crystals. When her eyes opened, he did not look away from the warm brown that met his own. The snow on her face and in her hair reminded him of crystals. She looked as though she were covered in thousands of tiny crystals.

"Please . . ." she rasped, her blue lips were cracked and dry. "Please . . . they're dying . . . don't let my people die."

Frerin noticed her body shake and drew her quickly into the folds of his cloak. She looked so utterly spent that he feared what he would see when they reached the others. "I will not, lady, you have my word," he vowed. "I am Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror."

"Neamhain, daughter of Nargeam," she breathed before giving a great shudder and stilling in his arms. Frerin panicked for but a moment before he noticed that she still breathed. He stared down at the dwarrowdam in his arms, shocked and amazed.

Though in his heart he knew that Lord Nargeam was dead, his daughter, Lady Neamhain, lived. And Frerin was determined to keep her that way.

* * *

**Read and Review!**

**~filimeala**


	2. Chapter 2 Survivors in the Snow

**Chapter Two- Survivors in the Snow**

When they reached the small camp, within the shelter of the ominous trees, they stood staring at the sight before them, shocked into silence. Not a soul moved, save for the opening of their eyes against the cold. Many looked emaciated, others did not move at all and they knew that those ones were dead. Frerin almost expected them to jump up and cheer that they were saved. But they did not. He clenched his jaw tightly, looking down at the the sleeping dwarrowdam in his arms, still, before looking to Gimlor.

The older dwarf just stood there. Facing the small group of survivors with slumped shoulders. It was not hard to see the shock and horror in his aged face.

Frerin took charge then. He knew as Prince, it was his duty to get these dwarves back, to Erebor. Unclasping his cloak he lowered Neamhain to the ground and wrapped her tightly in the folds of fur before turning and ordering the others to get a fire going. It seemed the survivors had done that, judging by the darkened patch of burnt ground, but given the cold and lack of movement from them, Frerin hazarded a guess that they had long given up hope of being found, and had stopped making a fire.

Once there was a fire burning, some of them stirred at the heat. A pot was brought out and soon the smell of food filled the air. That alone earned them several pained moans from the stirring dwarves. Frerin didn't know how long it took, but they began to warm up the freezing dwarves, covering them in more blankets, bringing them steaming bowls of broth and feeding the weaker ones. A few stubbornly fed themselves and Frerin had to admire their strength and pride.

When night had fallen, they were all fed, and some even mustered the strength to speak to their companions in short monosyllabic exchanges. Frerin stood away from them all, near Neamhain's sleeping form, worrying gnawing him. She had not woken yet, and he wanted to get food in her.

Gimlor came to his side. "It was worse than I thought," he murmured tiredly.

Frerin nodded.

"You did good, laddie." He meant getting the fire going and the food. "I only hope that they can make the return trip and that no other travesty befalls us."

"Aye," Frerin murmured. "We'll have to leave the dead though," he said feeling heavy, knowing that they deserved a proper burial. "Cover them in snow until a larger party can bring them back . . ."

Gimlor was silent, a muscle in his jaw working as he stared at the pale form of a dwarf, lying at the edge of the camp, untouched since their arrival. Frerin looked at his feet and swallowed thickly. The survivor party consisted of thirty dwarrows, nine of whom, were currently dead. Leaving twenty-one to make the trip back to the Lonely Mountain. But thirty? Surely there had to have been more from Moria that had survived?

"My lord?" one of Gimlor's men approached them.

"Yes, Dingrel?" Frerin straightened as he was addressed.

"There's a dwarrowdam, she wants to speak with you."

Frerin nodded. "Lead on."

Near the fire, and huddled under several layers of thick wool blankets, sat a dwarrowdam with hair as white as the snow around them. Her lined face was gaunt, and her eyes stared up at him as he approached. Frerin squatted down to be at her eye level, notting the braids and beads in her hair, signifying that she was a lady of the court.

"My lady, you called?"

"Tell me, Lord Prince, did you find my daughter?" she asked, voice rasping out of her dry cracked lips. Frerin frowned slightly.

"Who is your daughter, lady?"

She licked her lips, worry shining in her dark eyes. "Neamhain, she went out to search for help. She would not wait. She would not listen."

"The Lady Neamhain, found us. I returned with her here, my lady." The dwarrowdam relaxed, lowering her eyes before looking to the crackling flames that so many of her people had gathered around. "She has yet to wake, but I've made sure she is comfortable."

Frerin watched as the lady's eyes glittered in the light of the fire, and he knew that it was tears. She refused to look at him when she spoke.

"You must pity us, Lord Prince," she said. "Running from the halls of our fathers, to be hunted and starve out in the wild."

"I do not pity you," Frerin said firmly, watching her blink rapidly. "I mourn in the loss of our people. Pity is for weaker beings. You need not fear of pity from me."

"Strong words, for an heir of Durin," she murmured. "Tell me, will your father be so like minded, or King Thror?"

"I will not speak for my father and grandfather. But know that you have an ally in me."

He watched her shoulders slump slightly, beneath the blankets. He ached to see such a proud dwarrowdam burdened down by this. She was a lady, she should be proud. Not starving in the wilderness.

"Tell me, how many started out from Moria?"

She flinched as the mention of her home. "Many. Only we few, decided to go to Erebor, seek the King and our kin. The others went westward, to Ered Luin or wherever else they could go."

"How many?" he asked gently.

She hung her head. "A hundred decided to go to Erebor. So many died on the journey . . ."

Frerin stilled. Only twenty-one out of a hundred had made it . . . what horrors had they come upon? Truly, they were a hardy group, surviving the cold for this long. Yet it did not escape his notice that most of the old and young were absent from the group here. Frerin reached forward and grasped one of the dwarrowdams hands tightly in his own. It trembled from the cold, and he could feel the bones of her fingers beneath the aged skin.

"My lady, what may I call you?"

"Dihain," she responded, "wife of Nargeam, Lord of Moria." Her voice dwindled as she spoke of Moria, pain sweeping across her face.

"My Lady Dihain, we will take you home."

* * *

He had dozed off, some time during the late hours of night, only to be woken by a strange moan. Frerin jerked awake, clenching his cold fingers tightly as they burned in pain. Looking to his right his eyes landed on Neamhain, the dwarrowdam was tiredly looking around, her gaze freezing upon the fire. He sat up quickly, clearing his throat, and gaining her attention.

Her brown eyes blinked owlishly up at him and he offered her what he hoped was a warm and welcoming smile. Immediately she stiffen, lips thinning as her brown eyes turned cold. No longer was desperation on her face, or the ice crystals, that if he was honest with himself had looked like real diamonds.

"Where am I?" she asked, but it felt more like a demand. Frerin was not startled, merely intrigued by the difference in attitude from before. But then again, he reminded himself, lords and ladies of the court are not always what they seem.

"In your camp, my lady," he replied smoothly. "We have brought food, and supplies."

She gazed at him, warily and suspiciously. Frerin took in her face, finding that she was pretty, in a quiet sort of way. Nothing about her stuck out vividly, but she had an air of elegant poise, and were it not for the burn on the side of her face, he might've considered her a beauty. But her eyes told more of a story. A deep brown they had seemed earlier that day, now a dark almost black color as she all but glared at him. He deemed that she was without a doubt in his mind a lady of a Lord, a lady of a court. And from his interaction with her mother earlier, Neamhain seemed to be the one in charge of the group.

"There is broth, would you like some?" he asked breaking the silence. The entire time she had not dropped his gaze, returning it as though he was challenging her. A frown pulled at her lips.

"I do not feel hungry . . ." she murmured. That worried Frerin. Dwarves, by nature, enjoyed food. Eating whenever the opportunity presented itself. To not feel hungry was a bad sign indeed.

"I will fetch you some," he replied, rising and approached the fire where the pot still hung over the flames. He quickly poured the broth into a bowl and brought it back to her. Even his own stomach growled at the smell of beef rising from the warm liquid. He crouched down before her and held the bowl out for her. Frerin knew she was proud, her words speaking for that itself. He would not deign to even think of feeding her unless she asked, or if she refused to eat.

Neamhain eyed the bowl, shifting in the blankets and slowly pulling her arms out from the warm depths. Frerin noticed that they shook as she lifted them to take the bowl. He was doubtful that she would be able to hold it, and he was right, a moment later her hands shaking so bad that a bit of broth splashed over the side of the bowl. She scowled at her hands, clenching them slowly and avoiding his gaze.

After a long silence, where she grit her teeth and growled under her breath (a not so lady-like action) she finally muttered, "could you assist me?"

Wordlessly, Frerin lifted the spoon to her lips and she drank the liquid quietly. When she was halfway through the bowl she stopped him by placing her hand on his wrist. A shock went up his arm, leaving a tingling feeling in it's wake, and he met her eyes.

"Thank you," she murmured sincerely. "We would be dead, were it not for you."

Frerin bowed his head in acknowledgement. "We would not have found your party were it not for you, Lady Neamhain."

* * *

The next morning was bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. Gimlor deemed that it would be good to start back towards Erebor, before another winter storm blew in. While the other members of Frerin's party saw to it that the survivors were bundled up carefully, he made sure to see to Lady Dihain and Lady Neamhain's needs. The elder graciously accepted his help, thanking him as he wrapped yet another blanket around her shoulders. The daughter was not so.

"I am warm enough," she said stiffly when he offered her another blanket to the two already around her shoulders and the cloak. She gave him a miffed look when he insisted. "I am not a helpless bairn! We dwarrow are made of hardy material."

He gave in, but only because Dihain shook her head at Frerin. He understood now the elder dwarrowdam's words. Neamhain was proud and stubborn. As a dwarf, he admired that. But he did not want to see her fall ill on their way to the mountain.

The dead were laid in a row, arms crossing their chest and covered in blankets before snow was piled on top of them. Hopefully it would preserve their bodies until they could be retrieved later. Once finished the party set out, heading north.

Neamhain was the last to turn away, her shoulders slumped and head bowed. Frerin watched from the edge of the camp, falling into step beside her when she joined him. He could feel the sadness radiating off her.

* * *

Their luck held out for five days.

A storm blew in early that afternoon, and they were forced to make camp out in the open, huddled in the great expanse of snow in a single clump. They had no wood for fire, and the blankets were soon covered in snow, and ice.

They lost two.

* * *

Neamhain walked in silence, head bowed against the wind. Shielding her face from the bite of the wind in an effort to spare her already frostbitten face. She had hardly spoken since the storm, the day before. She didn't seem to want to. Frerin could only watch from afar. Her people, the ones from Moria, kept close to her. He knew it was out of kinship, loyalty and grief.

She was their leader, for lack of better term. She led them.

Gimlor grunted as he stumbled yet again, and Frerin's hand shot out to grab his arm and haul him upright. The warrior claimed that he couldn't feel his feet. And to be honest, neither could Frerin.

"Damn snow," the elder growled.

"Easy Gimlor," Frerin said. "Don't tempt fate to bring yet another storm." His humor was lost on the dwarf. "I think we may reach the mountain tomorrow."

"Should we stop in Dale?"

"No, I think we should just go home. No doubt my family is worried," he grinned slightly and Gimlor barked out a laugh.

"I'm surprised they haven't sent out a search party for 'ya, lad."

"Thorin must be itching to get out and do just that." He could imagine his elder brother, asking to go search for him, furiously smashing furniture when their grandfather denied him. Despite being a Prince and heir to the throne, his brother had little freedom. Thorin was a fighter, not a politician.

"Aye, best prepare yourself then. They won't be letting you out of their sight for a long while."

* * *

Frerin did not let them admire the sight of Erebor rising up to greet them as they approached. They needed to get into the mountain. Another storm was coming. Clouds rolled overhead, dark and ominous. By nightfall, it began snowing, falling in large clumps that stuck to everything, which in turn melted and they soon found themselves wet.

The wind picked up.

He found himself beside Neamhain, watching her out of the corner of his eyes as she trudged along. She did not admire the mountain like her companions. She hardly even raised her head to look at it. He found himself frowning. Wanting her to admire it, gaze upon its beauty and be glad that their journey was almost over.

He did not know why he wanted her to react that way. He did not understand why he wanted her to be happy. He did not understand it at all.

Frerin was drawn from his thoughts when a shout rose up from the front of the party, and a group of heavily armored guards approached them, the entrance of the mountain looming up out of the darkness. His brows drew together, not realizing how close they had been to the gates that were guarded by great stone statues.

"Halt!"

He slowed, gently reaching out and taking Neamhain's elbow in his hand, guiding her forward. She did not fight him, but she did shoot him a glare as they stopped before the guards. At the forefront was a dwarf he easily recognized, the dark mohawk of hair giving the dwarf a wild and fierce look.

"Dwalin!" he beamed, allowing the dwarf to embrace him. Dwalin smirked at him, before his gaze turned to the party behind them. "It is good to see you my friend."

"Aye," Dwalin replied gruffly, but a serious look entered his face. "But I must take you to the King. You've been gone for quite some time."

Frerin nodded, squaring his shoulders as he unconsciously prepared himself for his family. He ordered that the survivors be taken to the healing wards, their hurts to be cared for, and that Neamhain be given proper chambers in the royal wing. Dwalin's brows rose at that and Neamhain gave him a dark look full of confusion.

When they entered the mountain the party separated, his companions following the survivors to get their own hurts taken care of and Neamhain to her chambers. And suddenly he felt very alone. He turned to Dwalin, steeling himself before addressing his friend.

"Lead on."


End file.
